Craig Kreident #2 Fallout (22 page)

“That’s what I’m here for,” the pilot said.
 
“What’s the emergency?”

“Militia threatening to blow up the railroad bridge near Laughlin.”

The pilot shook his head.
 
“Again?
 
What is it with these bozos?
 
What are they trying to prove?”

Craig turned to Jackson, who had finished buckling himself in.
 
“Guess you’ll have to follow up that lead at Dennisons later.
 
Did you contact Amtrak HQ?” he said.
 
“Pass along the warning?”

“I got bounced up the telephone chain pretty fast,” Jackson said.
 
“I spoke to a manager senior enough to halt the train, and he said they’d radio the train operator.”

“But did they get through to the engineer?”

“Not while I was on the phone.
 
They thought the train had just left Silverpan, the last stop before crossing the Colorado river, but they were going to keep trying.
 
Sounded like they were having some problem with the radio.”

“Terrific,” Craig said.

Goldfarb spoke up.
 
“The
Mesa Zephyr
is perennially late, so we might have some leeway.”

Craig fidgeted as he looked out the curved Plexiglas window of the helicopter.
 
Beyond the city limits the marks of civilization vanished quickly, leaving only arrow-straight roads across the desert like ancient Inca tracks.
 
“I don’t care if the train is an hour late, we’ve got to make sure it doesn’t cross that bridge.”
 
He looked at his watch.
 
Twenty-five minutes to go.

“It’s going to be tight,” the pilot said.
 
“But we’ve got a tailwind and smooth flying.
 
I won’t slow down for any stoplights.”

Bleak desert scenery streaked below them, banded with color, wrinkled and furrowed into petrified rivulets like the refuse from some insane potter’s kiln.
 
But Craig looked at his watch more than the scenery.

Jackson touched his headset, frowning grimly.
 
He sent an acknowledgment into the microphone, then turned to Craig.
 
“Still no word from the train.
 
The engineer’s radio is out of order somehow, though it was working just fine before their last stop.”

“More sabotage?” Goldfarb asked.
 
“These guys are pretty thorough.”

“How much farther?” Craig said, staring at his watch.
 
“We’ve got twenty minutes if that thing is set to blow at 9:56.”

“We’re making good time and following the river,” the pilot said.
 
“It shouldn’t be too hard to find a railroad track across this desert.”

Laughlin, a gambling town by the river, was situated at the bottom-most knifepoint of the state of Nevada, nestled against the Colorado River and Lake Mead.
 
Amtrak’s
Mesa Zephyr
was an express train that traveled from Albuquerque to Los Angeles, departing twice daily, carrying a load of passengers and crossing a bridge in a remote desert area north of Laughlin.

As Craig scanned the landscape, he realized that the Colorado River bridge made an excellent target, isolated enough that the Eagle’s Claw could set up their explosives in private, and the regular schedule of the train would allow them to stage a disaster that would make the world news.

Jackson squinted ahead out the front.
 
“There it is — see the silver line?” he announced, pointing.
 

Craig saw only the glare from the sun on his sensitive eyes.
 
He snugged the sunglasses up closer, blinking, trying to focus.
 
As the sun glinted across the desert, he did make out gleaming parallel tracks.
 
The river flowed below, blue, green, with muddy brown edges against the rocky canyons.
 

He glanced at his watch again.
 
Fifteen minutes.
 
“Come on, come on,” he said.

Goldfarb peered out the side window using his pair of pocket binoculars.
 
His face looked ruddy and raw from his exposure to the previous day’s roaring fire.
 
“Let’s hope the train isn’t on time,” he said.

“Just our luck that they’ll be right on the money today.”
 
Craig wiped sweat from his forehead and drummed his fingertips on the seat beside him.
 
The second hand on his watch swept around with astonishing speed, minute after minute.
 
“Even if it isn’t, the bridge might be blown right before the train comes in.
 
The engineer might not be able to stop in time.”

The helicopter thundered low to the ground.
 
Rocks and scrub streaked by in a nauseating blur.
 
Craig watched the silvery tracks, saw where the arched steel bridge crossed the bottleneck canyon.
 
The sweeping metal arches looked like a portion of the Eiffel Tower laid on its side.
 

Once, on a Colorado vacation he’d taken with Trish, the two of them had gone out to cross the Royal Gorge on the world’s highest suspension bridge.
 
He remembered the breathtaking drop into a sheer-edged canyon.
 
Some people practiced hang gliding or parasailing off the bridge.
 
Craig couldn’t imagine being that daring . . . or ‘foolish,’ Trish had said.
 

She had refused to walk up to the edge and lean over, instead standing back with her arms crossed, the wind ruffling her short brunette hair.
 
Craig had approached the rail, moving in front of his girlfriend, and she had asked him nervously to step back as he stared down at the incredible height.
 

At the time he hadn’t recognized a chasm equally deep and widening that already separated their lives and their interests.
 
Their relationship of five years had simply not proved strong enough to bridge that gap.

The railroad bridge over the Colorado River was not nearly as spectacular or as breathtaking as the span across the Royal Gorge, but this one might soon be the site of a deadly explosion.

Goldfarb adjusted his pocket binoculars.
 
“Here comes the train, right on time.
 
Lucky us.”

“Why isn’t the engineer stopping?” Craig said.

Jackson leaned into the cockpit window, his voice maddeningly calm.
 
“He’s not slowing down at all.”

Craig glanced around inside the cockpit.
 
“Give me the loudspeaker mike.
 
If his radio’s not working, we’ll try to get the engineer’s attention some other way.”

“Aren’t you going to contact Amtrak again?” asked Goldfarb.

“No time.
 
We’re going to have to head them off.”
 
Craig leaned forward to the pilot.
 
“Fly down the tracks right in front of the train.”

The pilot twisted around in his seat and looked at Craig in disbelief.
 
“You want me to play chicken with a train?”

“I want you to play law-enforcement officer,” Craig said.
 
He leaned forward, his face flushed, his expression earnest.
 
“When he sees our FBI helicopter, he’ll stop.
 
I’m sure he’ll stop.”

“I’m glad
you’re
sure,” the pilot said.
 
“Gee, that gives me all the confidence I need.”
 
He adjusted course so that the helicopter roared down with the tracks beneath him like white lines in the center of a highway.

Directly in front of them they saw the oncoming silver train, its circular white beacon like a cyclopean eye streaking toward them.
 
“Do you think he’ll blink first, or should I?” the pilot said zooming forward on a collision course.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” muttered Goldfarb.
 
“We wouldn’t stand a chance against that train.”
 
The curly-haired agent grasped the seat in front of him.

Smoke sizzled up as the train’s brakes began to squeal.
 
Craig could see sparks rising from the tracks.

“We’ve got his attention,” Craig said.
 
“Now don’t get us killed.”

With the slightest upturn of his lips, proving that he actually enjoyed this stunt flying, the pilot swerved to the left at the last instant, like a matador taunting a bull.
 
He circled the helicopter around the train, coming parallel to the engineer’s compartment in the front locomotive.
 
The train’s brakes continued to squeal as the
Mesa Zephyr
attempted to force an emergency stop before it reached the bridge.

Craig grabbed the loudspeaker microphone and shouted into it.
 
His voice boomed out like a god from Mount Olympus.
 
“This is the FBI.
 
Stop the train immediately.
 
Danger ahead.”

The train squealed and shook, shuddering as it slowed.
 
It seemed to take forever.
 
Gray-white smoke boiled from the metal wheels as the brakes fought against the massive momentum.
 
Craig heard a deep, grinding sound even over the incessant chopping of the helicopter blades.
 
On and on the train went as it ground slower and slower, closer to the bridge.

The train finally groaned to a shuddering stop a hundred yards from the high suspended trestles.
 

“Set us down next to the tracks,” Craig said.

The pilot glanced around.
 
“Sure.
 
Plenty of flat space.”
 
The skids touched the baked desert floor.

Craig glanced at his watch.
 
“Six minutes to spare.”
 
He unbuckled his seatbelt and lurched for the helicopter door.

“We’ll find out in a few minutes if we’ve made a big mistake, Craig,” Goldfarb said.

“Better safe than sorry.”

Goldfarb snorted.
 
“I see you took that course in clichés at Quantico.”

“We know the Eagle’s Claw isn’t much for kidding around,” Craig said.

The three agents tumbled out of the helicopter and ran toward the train.
 
The engineer had already climbed out of the front locomotive, gripping the handbar.
 
He stared across at them, his face florid, his expression a combination of fear and anger.

Craig fished out his ID and badge wallet as he marched toward the train, his shoes crunching in the rough soil.
 
“Federal agent,” he announced.
 
“You should have received our warnings about possible sabotage to the bridge ahead, sir.
 
You did not acknowledge our radio transmissions.”

The engineer looked flustered, turning to glare at someone unseen in the locomotive compartment with him.
 
“Sabotage?
 
What the hell are you talking about?”

“You didn’t get a radio call about a possible bomb on the bridge?”

A fellow engineer walked up, wiping his hands on a towel.
 
“What’s this about a bomb?
 
Are you people serious?
 
There wasn’t anything over the radio — we just had it checked at Silverpan.”

Jackson leaned over and said quietly to Craig, “I think somebody did more than
check
the radio in Silverpan.”

“Is there a bomb?
 
Is this for real?”
 
The first engineer had a blond mustache, dark eyes closely set with heavy folds of skin around his eyelids.
 
His skin had a rough texture as if it had been sunburned beyond repair many times.

“We received a threatening message, sir,” Craig said.
 
“We felt it best to be cautious.”

“Another ‘threatening message,’ awww jeez!
 
Tenth time in two months.
 
Didn’t you read the story about the boy who cried wolf?” the engineer said.
 
“We haven’t heard jack from HQ.”

Craig looked at his watch.
 
“We’ll know in a minute,” he said.
 
“Actually a minute, thirty seconds . . . if my time is right.”

“All right,” the engineer said, hands on his hips.
 
“But my passengers won’t take too kindly to a delay — we were on schedule for once, too.”

Goldfarb and Jackson stood on either side of Craig, nervously glancing at their own wristwatches.
 
The helicopter pilot remained in his craft.
 
The rotor blades continued to whirl as he kept the engines powered up and ready for instant departure.

The sunburned engineer turned to his companion.
 
“Use the intercom, Paul.
 
Tell the passengers we’ll be on our way momentarily.
 
Sorry for the delay . . . all that crap.
 
Make it sound nice.
 
And call HQ.
 
Find out what the hell is going on.
 
Why didn’t we hear anything over the radio?”

Craig didn’t speak, but stared at his watch.
 
The second hand swept around the dial.
 
Forty-five seconds.
 
Thirty seconds.

Fifteen seconds.
 

His heart pounded.
 
His throat grew dry and sweat broke out on his forehead as the midmorning sun shone down.
 
Around him, he could hear the sounds of the Amtrak train groaning, ticking, making settling noises from its violent and sudden stop.
 
The smell of burned lubricants hung in the air.
 

Craig couldn’t decide whether he wanted the explosion to take place, just to vindicate him for sounding the alarm . . . or for nothing to happen so that the Eagle’s Claw would not have any sort of victory.
 
That bridge was an expensive piece of real estate.